PS 
3501 
158 
A17 


NRLF 


B   M   37M   038 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SANTA  CRUZ 


POEMS 


BY 
CARROLL  AIKINS 


BOSTON 

SHERMAN,  FRENCH  &  COMPANY 
1917 


COPYRIGHT,  1917 
SHERMAN,  FRENCH  6»  COMPANY 


TO  THE  MEMORY 
OF 

MY  FATHER 


PS 

3>S 
J6-ST 

A/7 


Greater  than  temples,  greater  than  the  song 
Of  priest  and  chorister  at  their  craft  and  art, 
Are  the  nice  balances  of  right  and  wrong 
That  swing  to  mercy,  in  a  good  man's  heart. 


NOTE 

The  author's  thanks  for  permission  to  reprint 
certain  of  the  poems  included  in  this  collection 
are  due  the  Editors  of  Scribner's  Magazine,  Mc- 
Clure's  Magazine  and  The  Canadian  Magazine. 


CONTENTS 

POEMS 

PAGE 

CREDO 1 

I  WOULD  No  LORDLY  OVER- WEAL  .      .      .      .        2  -- 

SONNET    3 

GREY  SISTERS 4 

IN  THE  ORCHARD       ,          5 

THE  RIVER  .  .    ',, 6 

PRAYER     ...........        7 

THE  CABIN  ON  THE  PLAIN 8 

To  9 

SARDONYX       .      . 10 

CHANSON  A  DEUX 11 

MY  LADY  OF  THE  LIGHT  CANOE     ....  12 

SPRING      .      .      .    .">-.. 13 

GIVE  ME  YOUR  EYES  TO  LOVE  .      ....  14 

THE  CHOSEN       .      .      .      * '  ,.  •  .•• .      ...  15 

THE  GREY  ROOM ,      .      .  16 

CONTENT 17 

GOOD  TO  WALK  THE  WORLD  WITH  .      .      .      .  18  ^ 

CARPENTRY 19 

VIGIL 20 

To  A  CHILD 21 

JUNE  ROSES 22  t- 

IN  No  MAN'S  LAND 23  -" * 

BEAUTY 24 


FROM  THE  MOUNTAINS 

PAGE 

THE  HERMIT  OF  WHISPERING  CREEK     ...  27 

THE  PIONEER  BREED     .      .      .      ...      .  31 

LEGEND .      .      .  32 

WINE  OP  THE  MORNING  .      .      .      .      .      .      .  33 

ABOVE  THE  TREE-LINE    .      .      .      ,      .      .      .  34 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  WINDS     .      .      .      .      f      .  35 

ASHNOLA  .  36 


POEMS 


CREDO 

I  BELIEVE  in  God  and  Fairies, 
Hell  and  Heaven,  hearts'  desire. 

I  believe  in  lovers'  fancies, 
Morning  star  and  sunset  fire. 

I  believe  in  work  and  leisure, 
Idle  wine  and  bleeding  hands. 

I  believe  in  pain  and  pleasure, 
Mountains  of  the  shifting  sands. 

I  believe  in  good  and  evil, 

Secret  gift  and  open  ill. 
I  believe  in  truth  and  cavil, 

Aconite  and  daffodil. 

I  believe  in  woman's  honour, 
Be  it  chaste  or  otherwise. 

I  believe  in  man's  endeavour, 

Though  it  wing  in  barren  skies. 

I  believe  in  soul  and  spirit, 

Sensitive  and  gossamer. 
I  believe  in  luck  and  merit, 

Wage-slave  and  adventurer. 

I  believe  in  peace  and  conquest, 
Orchard-close  and  field  of  strife; 

For,  in  mocking  mood  or  earnest, 
Have  I  great  belief  in  life. 


I  WOULD  NO  LORDLY  OVER-WEAL 

I  WOULD  no  lordly  over-weal, 

No  hound  of  chase, 
No  costly  ring,  no  kingly  seal, 

No  maid's  embrace. 

But  I  would  root  in  roadside  clay 

My  singing  tree 
That  travelers  of  the  Western  way 

May  come  to  me 

And,  resting  in  the  cool  release, 

Each  pilgrim  heart 
Find,  in  my  shaded  singing,  peace 

E'er  he  depart. 


[2] 


SONNET 

No !     In  that  thou  art  fair  I  love  thee  not  — 
Those  eyes  that  hold  the  rapture  and  the  gleam 
Of  stars  in  misty  summers,  eyes  that  seem 
The  havening  of  each  outshadowed  thought, 
In  all  save  love  and  gentleness  untaught; 
That  hair!     The  ripple  of  a  midnight  stream! 
That  face !     That  body !     All  that  others  deem 
Most    to    be    loved  —  I    hold    them    less    than 
naught ! 

For  thy  true  spirit  is  as  far  above 
The  templed  beauty  as  the  star  of  love 
Set  in  immortal  skies.     The  soul's  design 
Of  courage  and  compassion  is  so  fine 
In  undissolved  allegiance,  that  I  hold 
Thy  mortal  loveliness  as  dross  to  gold. 


[3] 


GREY  SISTERS 

SHE  stood  upon  her  life's  tumultuous  brink 

And  all  the  happy  seasons  ran  to  meet 

Her  girlhood,  and  to  gather  at  her  feet 

The  flowers  of  youth,  the  blossoms  white  and 

pink. 
All  deeds  were  hers,  all  thoughts,  to  do  and 

think, 

All  the  unfashioned,  all  the  endless  sweet 
Of  love  and  life  —  these  wove  about  her  feet 
Their  chain  of  years  untarnished,  link  on  link. 

And  as  she  stood,  still  hesitant,  a  child 
Unventured,  unrevealed,  the  stainless  vow 
Of  youth  upon  her  young  lips  undefiled, 
From  the  great  outer  emptiness  there  sped 
Three  passionless  grey  sisters  of  the  dead 
That  kissed  her  on  the  eyes  and  lips  and  brow. 


IN  THE  ORCHARD 

I  SEE  God  in  my  orchard  every  hour, 
And  in  the  downward  pulses  of  the  sun 
I  feel  His  heart  beat,  and  I  feel  the  power 
Of  pregnancy  in  every  passing  shower; 
And  still  I  find  His  infinite  spirit  spun 
In  bud  and  blossom,  and  His  bidding  done 
By  amber  bees,  and  many  a  pollened  flower 
With  mating  song  and  silent  orison. 

And  when  night  hovers  over  field  and  grove 
With  shadowy  plumage,  and  all  creatures  sleep, 
Still  on  the  lake  the  guardian  waters  keep 
A  lamping  vigil  with  His  stars  above, 
And  in  the  vast,  unventured  hills  I  see 
The  awful  measure  of  His  mastery. 


[5] 


THE  RIVER 

THROUGH  the  unclanging  city,  girt  and  pent 
With  walls  of  granite,  the  slow  river  glides, 
A  drowsy  woman,  wrapped  in  changing  tides 
Of  starry  vesture,  torn  and  sharply  rent 
By  stabbing  spire  and  shadowy  battlement, 
And,  drifting  'neath  grey  bridges,  dully  chides 
Her  bastion-lovers  with  a  weak  lament 
And  droops  to  sleep  amid  her  silent  tides. 

And  from  the  city,  one  that  had  no  bread 
And  one  that  wept  because  his  love  was  dead 
Of  his  own  doing,  and  such  others  came 
As  were  life-thwarted  in  the  streets  of  shame, 
And  from  their  starveling  sleep  went  down  to 

dream 
With  the  unwakeful  woman  of  the  stream. 


[6] 


PRAYER 

LET  me  not  live  by  twilight,  Lord,  I  pray, 
Nor  drowse  my  life  out  in  the  empty  grey 
Cathedral  shadow  where  the  fountains  play. 

Oh,  drench  me  in  the  sun's  downpouring  light 
Or  give  me  starflung  passionate  delight  I 
Only  the  noon  is  splendid,  and  the  night. 


m 


THE  CABIN  ON  THE  PLAIN 

"  THE  Spring  will  come !  And  then,  and  then," 
they  said, 

Those  blue  lips  babbling  ever  of  the  Spring. 
But  through  the  cabin  door  the  windy  sting 

Of  prairie  winter  swept  the  pillowed  head. 

"  The     Spring    will    come ! "     Life's    stealthy 

afterglow 
Brightened   the   worn   young   face.     "  With 

flowers  of  May !  " 
But  the  encircling  prairie  crept  away 

In  level  wastes  of  shadowless  white  snow. 

"  And  when  it  comes.  .  .  ."  The  hopeful, 
childish  breath 

Broke  in  a  shallow  whisper,  hard  and  dry. 
The  stainless  depths  of  the  incurious  sky 

Were  blue  and  vacant  as  the  eyes  of  death. 

The  Spring  wind  whispers  in  the  fields  of  grain, 
The  birds  sing,  and  the  first  faint  flowers 
come  out, 

Grow  bolder,  brighter,  garland  it  about.  .  .  . 
The  little  empty  cabin  on  the  plain. 


[8] 


TO 


I  LOVE  thee  for  my  sorrows ;  they  shall  creep 
Into  thine  eyes  and  be  transfused,  and  shine 
Like  bubbles  of  a  dark,  unprisoned  wine. 
I  love  thy  laughter  for  the  tears  I  weep. 

And  for  my  sins  I  love  thee ;  they  shall  hide 
Their  darkness  in  thy  bright,  untroubled  breast 
And  feed  thine  innocence,  as  poisonous  weeds 

are  blest 
In  burial  to  feed  the  fairest  garden-side. 

And  to  the  world  thy  laughter  and  thy  grace 
Shall  be  more  lovely  for  the  gifts  I  bear ; 
For  sorrow  shall  have  touched  thy  shining  face, 
And  pity,  thy  quiet  breast,  with  trembling  care. 


[9] 


SARDONYX 

THERE  lives  beside  the  Tyrrhene  sea 

An  artisan,  who  lovingly 

Gives  all  his  days  of  sun  or  shade 

In  pleasant   labour,   love-repaid, 

To  carving  faces,  grave  or  gay 

As  sard  or  as  chalcedony. 

And  as  he  works  the  veined  stone 

His  passing  fancies  to  enthrone, 

So  do  I  write  with  pen  and  ink 

The  dreams  I  dream,  the  things  I  think, 

And  as  each  careless  day  destroys 

His  cameos  (such  fragile  toys!) 

I  dare  not  hope  this  verse  of  mine 

May  even  live  so  long  a  time. 

He  labours  less  with  hands  than  heart 

As  I  do  now,  with  lesser  art, 

But  we  are  equals,  man  to  man, 

In  pleasures  of  the  artisan! 


[10] 


CHANSON  A  DEUX 

As  unto  us  is  given 
One  birth,  one  death, 

So,  under  widest  heaven, 
One  sense,  one  breath 

Of  downward  winds  love-laden 

Is  mine,  is  thine; 
Be  joy  thy  love's  hand-maiden, 

As  song  is  mine. 


MY  LADY  OP  THE  LIGHT  CANOE 

IF  the  bent,  hurrying  god  should  say, 
"  Go,  live  again  thy  happiest  day !  " 
With  what  a  glad,  swift-joyous  heart 
I'd  run,  and  thrust  the  boughs  apart, 
Stoop  to  the  water's  edge,  and  you, 
My  Lady  of  the  light  canoe. 

Out  where  the  vigorous  sunlight  pours 
A  flood  of  gold  on  the  tumbled  floors, 
Our  paddles  dip  to  the  running  wave — 
Ah!     Youth  is  merry!     And  Youth  is  brave, 
And  the  haven  of  Youth  is  the  Isle  of  Charms 
And  the  wings  of  Youth  are  swift,  brown  arms  I 

My  Lady   of  the  light   canoe, 
Go  wind  and  weather  well  with  you? 
And  do  you  still  loose  down  your  hair, 
And  have  you  still  no  heavier  care 
Than  making  tea  and  toast  for  two, 
My  Lady  of  the  light  canoe? 


[12] 


SPRING 

UNDER  the  frozen  sod  she  lay 
And  could  not  smile  or  weep ; 

But  grief  was  with  him  all  the  day 
And  grievous  was  his   sleep. 

Above  her  grave  the  shrunken  earth 

Was  garmented  a-new; 
She  could  not  see  the  greening  birth 

Of  grasses,  edged  with  dew. 

She  could  not  hear  the  bluebirds  sing 

Of  ma  tings  in  the  wood ; 
But  he  could  sense  the  yearning  spring 

In  every  straining  bud. 

And  as  he  walked  a  midnight  street, 
From  gaping  windows  wide 

Came  light  and  lilt  of  dancing  feet 
That  would  not  be  denied. 

O  Earth,  be  merciful  and  kind 

To  her  within  thy  trust; 
Pray  God  the  dead  be  deaf  and  blind, 

Pray  God  that  dust  is  dust! 


[13] 


GIVE  ME  YOUR  EYES  TO  LOVE 

GIVE  me  your  eyes  to  love,  daughter  of  glad- 
ness! 

Warm  as  the  ocean  by  midsummer  noon, 
Cool  as  the  ripples  that  riot  their  madness 
Down  the  long  river-reaches  a-slope  from  the 
moon! 

Give  me  your  eyes  to  love,  daughter  of  sorrow ! 

Soft  as  rose  petals  asleep  in  the  rain, 
Sad  as  the  midnight  with  never  a  morrow, 

Darker  than  Death,  and  his  plumage  of  pain ! 

Give  me  your  eyes  to  love,  now  and  hereafter! 

Eyes  of  the  spirit  in  shadow  or  light, 
That  all  the  day  long  I  may  live  with  their 

laughter 

And  bide  with  their  sorrow  the  span  of  the 
night ! 


[14] 


THE  CHOSEN 

GOD  has  designed 
To  ride  the  wind 
A  lustful  Death 
With  icy  breath, 
And  woe  betide 
The  builder's  pride, 
The  poet's  youth, 
The  dreamer's   truth, 
For  He  has  need 
Of  urgent  deed, 
Of  valiant  sight, 
Of  rhymed  delight, 
And  never  trees 
May  shelter  these 
From  that  swift  form 
Astride   the   storm. 


[15] 


THE  GREY  ROOM 

OH,  this  grey  room  with  love  is  lit 

As  room  has  never  been, 
And  urgent  fire-flung  envoys  flit 

Between  us  and  between; 

And  though  they  speak  a  stranger  tongue, 

Unused  beyond  our  door, 
No  sweeter  song  was  ever  sung 

In  any  room  before. 


[16] 


CONTENT 

DECEMBER  sits  a-loft  the  sky 
And  plucks  the  snow-clouds'  wintry  fleece ; 
I  hear  his  snarling  hounds  go  by, 
But  in  my  house  is  peace 

The  frost  is  patterned  on  the  pane; 
The  shivering  storm  runs  bare  above; 
The  trees  are  naked  in  the  lane, 
But  in  my  house  is  love. 


[17] 


GOOD  TO  WALK  THE  WORLD  WITH 

GOOD  to  walk  the  world  with, 

Such  a  mate ! 
Good  to  love  and  live  with, 

Soon  and  late. 

Good  to  take  God's  sending, 

Though  it  be 
But  a  by-path  wending 

To  the  sea. 

Good  to  walk  the  path  with 

Such  a  friend  I 
Good  to  sail  the  sea  with, 

At  the  end. 


[18] 


CARPENTRY 

IN  this  belittered  room  the  candle-sprite 
Cuts  and  is  quit  of  the  uneven  walls, 
Flickers  and  dies  on  chisel,  plane  and  saw, 
But  dances  ever  by  the  unfinished  crib 
As  if  the  unborn  tenant,  girl  or  boy, 
Already  peered  between  the  latticed  chinks 
And  loved  the  play,  and  laughed  with  shining 

eyes. 

And  on  that  younger  face  the  glory  shone 
Of  our  own  Springtime ;  and  the  love  that  fled 
Into  our  friendlier  summer  shyly  came 
And  put  his  arms  about  me,  wistfully. 


[19] 


VIGIL 

THAT  he  be  true,  this  pledge  of  ours, 

We  still  must  hold  above 
The  cradle  of  his  dawning  hours 

The  vigil  of  our  love, 

And  touch  those  blue,  unclouded  eyes 
With  rays  of  tempered  fire, 

And  steer  the  spirit's  frail  surmise 
To  venture  its  desire, 

Not  with  the  torrent's  mad  delights, 

But  on  that  inland  sea 
Of  charted  reefs  and  steady  lights 

That  is  self-mastery. 


[20] 


TO  A  CHILD 


I  CUNG  to  thee,  as  thou 
To  laughter  clingest; 

I  sing  to  thee,  as  thou 
To  thy  heart  singest. 

Thou,  whom  the  elves  make  free 

Of  elfin  lands  — 
Child,  are  they  aught  to  thee, 

My  clinging  hands? 

Thou  fluttering  baby-bird 

On  fairy  wing, 
Sweeter  thy   songs  unheard 

Than  those  I  sing. 

Starry  my  child  alway 
Hides  from  the  morrow ; 

Knows  he  that  age  is  grey  — 
Age  that  is  sorrow? 


[21] 


JUNE  ROSES 

SOFT  as  the  leisured  sunset 
My   roses   take   the   night, 

And  some  are  pale  with  loving, 
And  some  with  love  are  bright. 

Theirs  is  the  quiet  evening, 
The  deep  and  starry  breath 

Of  skies  that  know  not  sorrow, 
Of  dew  that  knows   not  death. 

0  roses  of  St.  Eloi, 

That  glimmer  in  the  night  — 
Why  are  they  pale,  thy  petals? 

Why  are  thy  petals  bright? 

O  roses  of  St.  Eloi, 

That  breathe  the  battle-breath 
Pale  with  the  dews  of  anguish, 

Pright  with  the  blgpd  qf  death, 


[23] 


IN  NO  MAN'S  LAND   — 

WOUNDED,  he  prayed  for  death, 

And  silently  death  came, 

And  he  was  glad. 

He  felt  the  easing  of  his  muscles, 

A  sweet  throbbing  of  music  in  his  wounds. 

The  dew,  cool  on  his  wrists  and  lips. 

And  he  was  glad, 

Glad  when  death  came,  O  Mother. 


[23] 


BEAUTY 

GREAT  GOD  !     What  blindness  of  the  living  eyes 
Was  ours  that  we  went  knocking  at  the  door 
Of  her  whose  sterile  breast  and  barren  thighs 
Are  desolation  and  the  mounds  of  war. 
Now,  in  the  night  of  terror  and  surprise, 
We  crouch  and  tremble ;  Beauty  is  no  more ; 
In  her  sweet  bed  a  cynical  foul  whore 
Laughs  shrilly  when  the  heart  of  childhood  dies. 

Oh!     Where  is  Beauty,  innocent,  enraptured 
Of  the  new  leaf,  the  song  of  tfye  birds,  the  wind, 
Shadows  of  trees,  night  and  the  clear,  uncap- 

tured 

Glory  of  morning?     Shall  our  children  find 
The  print  of  her  swift  feet,  and  leap  and  run 
With  her  bright  limbs  against  the  golden  sun? 


[24] 


FROM  THE  MOUNTAINS 


THE  HERMIT  OF  WHISPERING  CREEK 

THE  people  say  I've  lived  so  long 
(A  thousand  year,  if  I'm  not  wrong) 
In  this  old  shack,  with  floor  for  bed, 
That  I've  got  sawdust  in  my  head. 
We'll  call  them  fools,  and  let  it  go ; 
They  think  I'm  mad ;  they  are,  I  know, 
For  not  a  soul  of  them  can  hear 
My  water-voices,  singing  clear! 
Their  city  is  a  passing  lie, 
But  these  stream-voices  shall  not  die, 
At  least  —  God  save  me  from  that  fear, 
They've  been  my  friends  a  thousand  year! 

Stranger,  you  know  old  Siwash  Bill, 
Who  lives  behind  the  Eight-Mile  Hill? 
Don't  know  old  Bill?     His  son's  your  guide! 
The  half-breed?     Yes.     Bill  lost  his  pride. 
An  Oxford  man  he  says  he  was. 
Left  England  for  the  Big  Because  — 
No  matter  that!     But  Old  Bill  said, 
And  swore  it  on  his  father's  head, 
That  he  had  heard  (and  was  not  drunk, 
And  was  not  dreaming  in  his  bunk) 
That  he  had  heard  a  preacher  say 
This  stream  was  being  ditched  away! 
He  said  the  pilot  had  it  straight, 
The  whole  damned  project,  name,  and  date, 
To  steal  my  water  to  reclaim 
[27] 


Dry  Valley  from  its  "  wasteful  shame." 
Dry  Valley  —  twenty  miles  away ! 
And  just  to  grow  their  oats  and  hay, 
They'd  take  this  melted  snow  of  mine 
And  coax  it  down  a  surveyed  line, 
And  smooth  it  gently,  like  a  lake, 
For  fear  the  ditch  should  wash  and  break, 
And  hamper  it  with  pipe  and  drain, 
And  use  it  common  like  the  rain, 
A-smearing  it  across  the  field 
To  give  their  dust  a  double  yield. 
And  they  can  do  it  —  that's  the  worst ! 
A  fellow  doesn't  fyle  his  thirst, 
Record  his  mate,  and  God  defend 
That  I  may  never  brand  a  friend! 
The  stream  is  mine,  in  oral  fee, 
Because  the  waters  speak  to  me. 
A  thousand  year  they've  called  my  name  — 
Has  any  man  a  prior  claim? 
Not  by  the  Greater  Right!     But  then, 
I  know  your  courts  of  lawyer-men, 
Their  book-wise  wisdom,  bound  in  calf, 
And  how  the  very  judge  would  laugh 
And  ask  me  for  the  cubic-gauge, 
The  signed  and  sealed  recording  page  — 
No  justice  there!     And  that  is  why 
I  fear  these  mates  of  mine  may  die 
And  leave  their  places  bare  and  cold, 
With  me  beside  them  sick  and  old. 
Sometimes   (perhaps  my  hearing's  poor, 
[28] 


I  hope  to  God  it's  nothing  more) 
The  voices  seem  to  falter  out 
And  whisper,  where  they  used  to  shout, 
Seem  kind  of  sad,  and  weary,  too, 
Not  laughing  like  they  used  to  do ; 
And  then  I  think  of  what  Bill  said, 
And  seem  to  see  the  stony  bed 
A-glaring  at  me  in  the  sun, 
With  all  the  singing  voices  dumb! 
And  then  I  watch  the  water  sink 
Below  that  lower  basin  brink, 
Go  down  and  down,  and  how  I  fret 
And  feel  to  find  if  it  is  wet, 
And  wonder  if  the  flow  will  stop, 
If  they  have  stolen  every  drop, 
And  clench  my  hands,  and  grit  my  teeth, 
And  curse  that  irrigation  thief  — 
Until  the  bursting  clouds  bring  rain 
That  sends  it  flooding  back  again! 
That's  how  we  stand  —  I  left  the  town 
Because  the  people  trod  me  down ; 
I  left  your  love  and  hate  and  lies, 
Your  city  with  its  peering  eyes; 
I  called  the  old  life  at  an  end 
And  took  this  stream  for  wife  and  friend ! 
And  now  —  hush !     Listen  to  the  stream 
And  tell  me,  Stranger,  does  it  seem 
Not  quite  so  loud,  and  is  it  low, 
Low  —  lower  than  a  while  ago  ? 
Hush !     Hark  the  voices  —  bend  your  ear  — 
[*9] 


What's  that?  Speak  louder!  I  can't 
hear  — 

What's  that?  No  answer!  What?  Good- 
bye? 

You're  leaving  this  old  channel  dry 

And  going  round  the  other  way 

To  help  them  grow  .  .  .  their  oats  .  .  .  and 
hay; 

You're  leaving  me  .  .  .  you've  made  the 
start ; 

Don't  like  the  ditch  .  .  .  but  friends  must 
part. 

Remember  you?     But,  God  above! 

You  know  I  gave  you  all  my  love. 

I'll  not  forget !     Christ  help  me,  lad ! 

They're  dying  —  and  I'm  going  mad ! 


[30] 


THE  PIONEER  BREED 

WE  are  our  mothers'  children; 
This  is  our  sires*  behest:  — 
Lay  your  back  to  the  burden, 
Turn  your  face  to  the  West! 


Go  !     Where  the  stag  breaks  cover 
And  lone  coyotes  cry, 
Over  the  uncrossed  river, 
Under  the  smooth-rimmed  sky. 

Delving  your  league-long  furrow 
Deep  in  the  tufted  loam, 
Sleeping  against  the  morrow 
Snug  in  your  wattled  home, 

Sowing  the  wheat  and  the  clover, 
Warily  understand 
You  are  the  man  and  the  lover, 
She  is  the  virgin  land. 

What  if  the  land  be  barren, 
Arid,  rotten  with  rain? 
Know  ye  the  ways  of  women? 
Go  to  your  bride  again! 

Hold  her  against  her  season, 
Hold,  and  bid  her  give  birth! 
Love  with  a  blind  unreason, 
Lord  of  the  pregnant  earth  ! 
[31] 


LEGEND 

They  drew  his  corpse  from  the  bleeding  thorns. 
(Beware  the  Buck  with  the  Golden  Horns!) 

Hwnter  was  he  and  he  went  astray. 

(The  way  of  the  woods  is  a  woman's  way.) 

He  followed  game  as  a  hunter  should, 
Until  he  saw  in  a  lonely  wood 
The  Buck  with  the  Golden  Horns  —  ah !  woe ! 
He  dropped  his  arrows  and  knife  and  bow, 
He  dropped  his  pouch  and  his  flinty  spear, 
To  follow  after  that  bounding  deer. 
Faster  and  faster  the  phantom  ran, 
Paster  and  faster  followed  the  man, 
Into  a  valley,  over  a  stream, 
Soft  as  a  shadow,  swift  as  a  dream ! 
Higher  and  higher!     They  meet  and  merge 
On  the  ragged  lip  of  a  chasm's  verge  — 

Hunter  was  he  and  he  went  astray. 

(The  way  of  the  woods  is  a  woman's  way.) 

They  drew  his  corpse  from  the  bleeding  thorns. 
(Beware  the  Buck  with  the  Golden  Horns!) 


[32] 


WINE  OF  THE  MORNING 

WINE  of  the  morning,  once,  in  every  vein 
I  felt  your  swiftest  rapture;  once,  I  knew 
When  the  sun  rose  that  I  should  drink  of  you, — 
Drink  and  drink  deep,  be  drunk  and  drink  again. 
Wine  of  the  morning,  once  there  was  no  pain 
In  your  shrill,  tinkling  bells  of  steely  dew, 
No  sorrow  in  the  pine-sweet  breath  of  you  — 
Wine  of  the  morning,  rouse  my  blood  again ! 

Borne  in  love's  brimming  cup  by  one  whose  art 
Is  to  keep  pure  the  childhood  of  her  heart, 
Wine  of  the  morning,  come ;  the  dawn  wind  stirs 
With  leafy  breath  night's  shadowy  gossamers ; 
Child  of  the  morn,  be  fleet!  I,  too,  would  run 
My  youth  out  in  the  ardours  of  the  sun. 


[33] 


ABOVE  THE  TREE-LINE 

IMPREGNANT  and  outworn !     Was  ever  bloom 
Of  flower  upon  these  mountains,  living  fruit 
Ripe  for  the  lips  ( red  lips  and  reedy  flute ! ) 
Of  lovers,  by  some  wavering  water-plume? 
Or  were  they  ever  old  and  ever  mute, 
Born  without  youth,  in  the  shut  hours  of  gloom, 
Born  without  love,  in  chambers  destitute, 
A  brooding  menace  and  a  nameless  doom? 

They  turn  and  shoulder  from  their  beds  of  silt 
In  desolate  sickness ;  and  the  inclement  morn 
Looks  down  upon  them  with  cold  eyes  of  scorn, 
And  the  green  valley  shudders  at  the  guilt 
Of  those  bleak  summits,  brute  and  uncreate, 
Whose  soul  is  spent,  whose  spirit  devastate. 


[34] 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WINDS 

ALL    the   bright   day    we   wandered    and   were 

proud 
As  the  free  winds,  and  with  them  stormed  the 

height 

And  swayed  the  thrilling  grasses  in  our  flight, 
So  swift  were  we  to  press  against  the  cloud 
Our  happy  faces.     Riotous  and  loud 
We  roused  the  lonely  mountain  with  our  might 
Until  he  laughed  with  us  in  our  delight 
And   crest   to   crest   threw  back   the  vows   we 

vowed. 

Oh,  love  is  of  the  mountains ;  old  as  they, 
Torn  and  triumphant  as  the  riven  crest 
That  fingers  to  the  sky ;  the  ancient  prey 
Of  every  wind  that  strikes  the  open  breast. 
Our  love  is  of  the  mountains,  furious,  strong, 
And  every  wind  of  heaven  is  our  song. 


[35] 


ASHNOLA 

CHILD  of  the  rooted  earth, 

Slender  Ashnola, 
Fern  of  the  waking  woods, 

Dawn  winds  uphold  you. 

Deep  from  the  breathing  hills 

Animate  waters 
Sing  to  your  secret  heart 

Songs  as  mysterious. 

Noon,  from  her  flaming  height, 
Bends  her  down  vainly ; 

Dark,  from  his  kenneled  depth, 
Comes  not  to  vex  you. 

Child  of  the  rooted  earth, 

Slender  Ashnola, 
Fern  of  the  waking  woods, 

Dawn  winds  uphold  you. 


[36] 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


50m-l,'69(J5643s8)2373— 3A.1 


PS3501..I58A17 


5683 


